


Oh, the right romantic line...

by phoenix_rose (mordwen)



Series: Bromance [2]
Category: American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Richard Madden, Cannes, Demisexual Taron Egerton, Dom/sub, Drunken Welsh Singalong, Kissing, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Really soft d/s though, Those aren’t undertones any more, breath play, let’s be honest, sappy boys in love, so soft, sub!Taron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose
Summary: On their way to the airport, Taron posts one of Gavin’s shots from the day of the premiere, the velvet jacket absent, but still stunning in his shirtsleeves, cummerbund and bowtie, thank you very much, and Richard likes it, even though he’s sitting right next to him, and laughs when Brandon likes it a second later.“Your boyfriend thinks I’m hot, Richard,” teases Taron, and he’s not wrong. Then Tan France of all people comments “LOOK AT THAT SWAG” on it in all caps and with prayer hands, and Richard laughs. “Look, when queer royalty thinks you’ve got it going on, the rest of us mere mortals canna be expected to resist swooning!” Taron pushes at his shoulder and wraps an arm around him, gazes at him, open, guileless.There really is no better version of the past three days.





	Oh, the right romantic line...

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the sequel to I Just Love a Bromance and picks up exactly where that one left off. I don’t think you need to have read part one of Bromance to appreciate this one but if you don’t, you probably need to know that Taron and Richard and Brandon have very maturely negotiated for Taron & Richard to do whatever they want. No one is cheating here. Also, while there is barebacking in this fic, Taron and Richard are both on PReP and they’ve made an informed decision to risk other STDs. Elton would hound me beyond this life if I let his boys have unsafe sex and risk HIV, are you kidding me?
> 
> Talking of the sex — it’s become fairly kinky but it’s all consensual. I can’t help it… the way Richard keeps getting Taron water and adjusting his tie and the way Taron responds to everyone praising him just gives me very strong sub!Taron vibes. Also there’s tipsy sex but no drunk sex.
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to [heavensfallingaroundus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus) for cheerleading and beta reading, and to my friend J for being a generous prostate-owner and giving me some advice on the realism of my sex scenes.

“Richard and I have struck up a real friendship, building that relationship together,” says Taron. “You know, you have become one of my best friends…and I’ve loved meeting you and working with you on this. I think the world of you.”

Richard blushes, grins and ducks his head, murmurs, “The feeling’s mutual.” _Good Lord, he’s so in love._ He flashes back to the wee hours of last night and Taron’s shy confession and Taron in his arms, solid and warm.

Richard’s quietly impressed with Taron’s answers given his propensity to babble and his inability to lie. He was a teensy bit worried the lad was going to spill everything on day one, if he’s honest. But perhaps it’s going to be all right.

They’ll never escape the damned media circus and in the unlikely event any of them ever get married, they’ll have to do a Sophie. He briefly imagines _that_ — Taron and Brandon in matching tuxes, the three of them holding hands under a canopy — and has to close his eyes for a moment. _Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you? Settle down._ He’s pretty sure there’s no country in the world where that’s legal, even if they were at that point.

And then Dexter says, “I hate ’im. ’E’s ’orrible.” And everyone laughs and the moment’s gone.

***

Around 4.30pm, Richard figures it’s late enough in LA to text Brandon. They’re setting up for a photoshoot for a magazine, and someone’s had the bright idea for him to lie down in the sand in his tux, of all things. He sends a simple ‘Good morning, darling. I love you.’ and waits for the response.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzes and he swipes on the text without thinking, but it isn’t from Brandon; it’s from Taron.

4.40pm

**I can still feel you.**

Richard feels all the blood rush to his cock and all the breath rush out of his body and has to cover his reaction with a cough.

“Uh… can you give me a moment?” he says to the photographer. Ellen, her name is. She nods, checks her equipment, switches batteries.

4.42pm

_My god. You take my breath away._

4.43pm

_With photog though so behave. Where are you?_

4.43pm

**With the lads. Can’t stop thinking about you though.**

4.44pm

_And I you._

4.44pm

**Yacht leaves at 8. You’ll be there?**

4.45pm

_Wouldn’t miss it._

He’s grinning like an absolute maniac in the photos, but Ellen doesn’t seem to mind.

Brandon texts him back a few hours later.

6.18pm

Morning back. Or evening? [ The time of your life, hey](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bxkdeemg2oe/)?

6.18pm

_Ha! Yes. Evening. 6ish? Miss you._

6.19pm

Miss you more. How’s T? 😉

6.20pm

_Fantastic. Lots to tell. Fun tonight too. T got a yacht._

6.21pm

ofc hahaha. My bf the superstar. Have too much fun. Talk tomorrow?

6.21pm

_Always. Will be good to hear yr voice. Kisses._

***

The yacht is enormous. Richard realises too late that he was expecting Taron, his seven mates, a few girlfriends and himself and that he grossly misjudged Taron’s love of a party. He thinks most of the Paramount delegation are here, plus entourage, plus anyone who caught wind that the Rocketman crew was heading out onto the bay. The alcohol is flowing, there’s a tower of lobster and oysters and goodness knows what else on a massive ice pyramid in one of the rooms, and he’s welcomed with open arms and backslaps so often as he makes his way across the deck that it literally takes him an hour before he gets across to Taron, who’s leaning against the rail, laughing in the midst of the home crew, his band of seven brothers, as Richard has taken to call them in his head, and _bois am byth_ as Taron says.

“Dickie!” Taron calls out and pushes himself off the rail to reel Richard in. He goes up slightly on his toes to plant a tipsy kiss on Richard’s cheek and pulls him over to the lads.

“You’ve met Jack, at the Globes,” Taron is saying. “And this is Craig, Tom, Bleddyn…”

“Don’t worry, Dickie,” says Craig. “No one expects you to remember everyone’s names. ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, though. We’ve heard nothing but good things.”

And then Taron leans back against the rail, Richard tucked in next to him, warm all down his left side, and the conversation just flows. Richard schools his face and smiles at everyone. He catches Jack looking at him from time to time with a slightly curious expression, and he looks coolly back at him.

A few hours later, he heads to the bar to get everyone martinis after a round of Bond jokes, and Jack’s right there behind him.

“Richard,” Jack starts.

“Jack.”

“I’m not sure if I’m overstepping here… but Taron’s one of my oldest friends…”

“Depends what you’re about to say, mate.” He nods to the barman, gathers up the tray of martinis.

“Don’t break his heart. That’s all.”

Richard looks up, suddenly, searching Jack’s face for what he knows, and then realises he’s just given himself away. “I don’t intend to,” he says, softly.

“Guess that’s all I can ask. Let’s just say it won’t just be me coming for you if he gets hurt.”

Richard smiles. “Message received, loud and clear.”

“Shall we then?” says Jack.

“After you,” says Richard. And they weave their way back to the boys, martini trays held carefully aloft, to general merriment. _Guess that answers that question_ , he thinks. _Either that, or the man has truly impressive gaydar. Bi-dar? Whatever._

By 4am, they’re all right messy, and the lads from Aber are giving the Americans an impromptu Welsh choral experience at volume. They’ve moved on from Cwrw Melyn Bach to some kind of rowdy hymn and Richard, who can’t stand hearing himself sing at the best of times, is somewhat amazed to hear them casually slipping into four-part harmonies with their arms around each other in their shirt-sleeves. I mean, he knew T could sing, but this? This is glorious. The cheers when they’re done are just as rowdy, and Richard can’t help the proud grin on his face at Taron’s sheer bloody talent.

***

They stumble back to dock as the sun’s rising and Richard’s propping Taron up as much out of necessity as anything. His eyes are shining, though, as they wave farewell to the others and head again to the hotel. The lift door closes, and Richard presses up against Taron immediately, threading his fingers through Taron’s.

“Want you so badly, T. Keeping my hands off you tonight has been sheer torture.”

Taron pushes back against Richard, pushes up, parts his lips, panting slightly. He’s swaying a little and moves to kiss Richard as the door opens. It’s only just after 6 in the morning, so the corridor is thankfully empty.

“Your room or mine, Rich?” asks Taron.

“I don’t care. Mine.” He leads the way, swipes the door open. He’s taking his shirt off as he walks through, kicks his shoes off, goes back to Taron just as Taron kicks the door shut. Richard starts undoing Taron’s buttons, pulls Taron’s shirt out of his waistband, gets his hands _finally, finally_ on Taron’s broad back, his smooth expanse of _skin_ under his fingertips, and then Taron leans up and he’s kissing him, walking backwards towards the bed, shucking Taron’s shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor, lips locked and then a hand on Taron’s neck, in Taron’s hair, pulling him closer and Richard just wants to _devour_ him.

They’re both fumbling at belt buckles and flies, shoving down trousers, and they’re both a little bit too drunk to be doing this standing up but they’ve all of a sudden got a second wind. They fall onto the bed together and they’re grinding against each other, frantic. “Ohhh, Taron. Ohhh, you feel soooo good,” moans Richard, and Taron is grunting as he thrusts up, his cock half-hard against Richard’s thigh, and Richard is mouthing wetly against Taron’s throat, his stubble just the right kind of rough against his lips.

His own cock is rock solid, dripping pre-cum into his black boxers, the wet slide starting to build pressure already in his bollocks. Richard’s hips are moving of their own accord, and their pricks are now rubbing against each other and it’s electric.

“I’m going to come in my pants if yer not careful, T,” he pants. “You’re fucking incandescent.”

Taron’s moan beneath him is obscene. “Do it, do it,” he chants, and bites Richard’s lower lip. Taron thrusts up erratically and digs his nails into Richard’s shoulders and then Richard’s toes are curling and his belly tightens and he’s pulsing into his black silk pants, hot and sticky, and Taron kisses him through it.

“‘M sorry…” he starts, but Taron places one gentle finger over his lips.

“Shhhhh. No apologies. That was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.”

“What do you need?” Richard asks.

Taron kisses him again. “Nothing. I’m fine. That was gorgeous. I’m sleepy and I’m very happy to be in your arms, and there’ll be time when we wake up, ‘kay?”

Richard nods, half-awake.

“You’re going to hate me if I let you sleep in that though, so let’s at least get those off you.”

“Fair point. In a minute?”

Taron smiles at him gently. “Now, I reckon. But don’t you move.” He peels Richard’s boxers and trousers off him, snuggles back in, and they’re both asleep in minutes.

***

When Richard emerges sluggishly into consciousness a few hours later, he has a warm Taron stretched out across his full length, ankles intertwined, head on his shoulder, and he feels so loved and safe. Taron lifts his head and meets his gaze. “Morning, sunshine. Thought I heard your breathing change,” he murmurs.

Richard traces his fingers across Taron’s broad shoulders. “Mmmm. What time is it?”

“We’ve got about two hours before we’re supposed to be at Le Maschou. You can go back to sleep if you want.”

Richard rubs a hand across his chin. “Right. I need a shower…” He strokes Taron’s forearm — up, down. “But also I don’t want to move…” He lifts his head and kisses Taron softly, lips parting as even that small gesture sends shocks of arousal through him. “Mmmm… join me?”

“In the shower?” asks Taron, surprised.

“Aye — have ye not seen the size of these showers? I’ve wanted to see you naked and dripping wet for months, T.”

“Well, when you put it like that, love…” Taron grins. “You do realise there’s [footage of my bum in a shower](https://makeagif.com/gif/taron-egerton-shower-scene-in-the-smoke-yeM9uw) out there somewhere...”

He pushes himself up and takes both of Richard’s hands, pulling him up and off the bed, then leads him to the bathroom.

“D’ye not think I’ve watched that? Where d’ye think this particular desire started?”

Taron just laughs at him.

Richard looks him up and down — this strong, gorgeous man who is just so unselfconscious completely nude with a man he’s just slept with, so utterly confident in his body and his sexuality. And he’s here, with Richard. Images of Taron spread out beneath him only a day ago flash into his mind — that moment of his cock sinking so achingly slow into Taron’s slippery heat, so tight. Richard thought he could never have this, is still amazed that Taron hasn’t had some crisis of regret…

“Penny for your thoughts, Dickie,” says Taron.

“I’m thinking I’m the luckiest man on the planet, T.”

Taron smiles at him, cheeky. “I’m a very competitive man, Dickie. And I was angling for that title.”

Richard lifts his hand, where their fingers are still tangled, and kisses the back of Taron’s hand. Then he walks Taron into the large double shower and turns on all the jets, gets the water just right. He pours a dollop of the fancy shower gel into his palm, and lathers it up on Taron’s chest, down his belly, that slightly soft curve. “Let me take care of you, T? You’re so beautiful like this…” And Taron closes his eyes, slow, opens them again.

“Yes, Richard.” Richard washes Taron reverently, massaging each limb, every muscle, as he goes. Taron is so pliant, eyes following Richard’s hands but almost unfocused, a soft smile playing across his lips. Richard is mesmerised; that sharp jaw, those cheekbones, this chiseled angel under his hands. _My boy_ , he thinks, and ever so gently, washes Taron’s cock and balls, and Taron’s breathing speeds up, a little, and he plumps up, a little, but he stays still under Richard’s ministrations.

“Turn around, love,” says Richard, and Taron does. Richard washes his shoulders, his back, the plush swell of his bum. “This okay?” The hot spray envelopes them both, and Richard rinses the cloth out.

“Uh huh…” Taron sounds a little spaced out, but he doesn’t flinch when Richard dips his hand between Taron’s cheeks and washes him there too. Taron catches his breath as Richard’s fingers brush across his sensitive flesh and dip down further to his perineum. “All done, darling.”

Taron turns back around, steps forward to embrace Richard. “I think…” he starts, clears his throat. “I think that was the most sensual experience I’ve had, ever. So intimate.” He kisses Richard, soft and deep. “Can I return the favour?”

“Of course.” Richard hands over the washcloth, and Taron begins. His expression is amazed, and there’s no way Richard is going to remain as calm as Taron was. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire, Taron’s fingertips livewires dancing across his skin. He takes a deep breath through his nose, presses a kiss to Taron’s neck as Taron reaches over his shoulders to wash down his back, the warm water sluicing down their bodies, rivulets joining together. His cock is stiff against Taron’s hip.

As Taron steps back to wash Richard’s groin, Richard’s suddenly a little uncomfortable, remembering that he slept in his own mess this morning. “I can…” he begins, but Taron shushes him, lathers him up, and carefully sponges Richard clean under the spray.

“Did I ever tell you,” asks Taron, “about filming at the bottom of the pool?”

“I don’t think you did.” Taron’s hand gently reaches beneath him, washes his bollocks, traces his fingertips lazily back up his hard cock.

“We’d go down for like 15 minutes at a time. It’s 20 metres down, so you have to come up slowly, breathing with a regulator. I panicked a bit, when we first did it. But by the end of a day, I kind of found myself in a zen place, down in the deep blue with no air. And I could stay down there for quite a while.”

“What’re ye saying, T?”

Taron looks at him from under his lashes. “I’m saying, Richard,” he says mock-seriously, “that I’ve become very, very good at holding my breath.”

And he drops to his knees right there under the spray.

He looks eager, and already a little dazed, and Richard remembers how Taron zoned out with it yesterday. Taron kisses the tip of Richard’s cock. “Tell me how to do what you did the other day. I want you in my throat. I want you cutting off my air.”

“My god,” breathes Richard. Taron swallows him down a little more, comes back up, the water running over his face. “You kinky bastard. You’re so full of surprises.”

Richard is struggling to think straight. It’s been a long time since he’s played games like this; he’s not even sure Taron knows what he’s suggesting. “Wait, T. Do you know what a safe word is?”

Mouth full of cock, Taron shrugs slightly.

“Pick a word and if you say it, I’ll stop immediately,” says Richard. “Just to be safe.”

Taron let’s Richard’s cock pop out of his hot, wet mouth with an obscene noise.

“Kingsman,” he says.

“You’re going to kill me,” says Richard. “But also I love it. Say that and you’re instantly back in charge of yourself. And if you need to stop and you can’t speak, tap my thigh twice. Okay? Ready?” Taron nods. “Open up again.” _Jesus Christ, the sight of him._ On his knees, red mouth open, waiting impatiently for Richard to plunge into that heat. “Angle your neck back so that your throat is more of a straight line… that’s it.” Richard holds Taron’s head where he wants it and nudges his cock past Taron’s lips, past his tongue and then all the way down his throat, in one smooth motion.

“So good for me,” moans Richard, and Taron shivers and hums. Richard holds him there, revelling in the tight flutter around him, the gift of Taron relinquishing control to him, the water flowing down his torso and across Taron, and he is simply in awe. After what seems like an eternity, Taron slides back up his length, and takes a deep breath, shuddering slightly.

“How are you doing, my darling?”

“I’m floating, Richard. Deep at the bottom of the pool…” says Taron. He looks up at Richard, swallows, breathes in. “Again,” he says, and opens his mouth, and angles his head back, just right.

“Oh. My. God,” whispers Richard. “How are you even real?” and he slides into Taron’s throat, and Taron bobs up and down on him, all the way up, all the way down, so slow, over and over, and Taron… Taron just takes it so beautifully.

“You’re incredible, Taron. The way you take my prick. You were made for sucking cock, Taron, _made_ for it. Jesus Christ.”

Taron groans around him, pulls off, and he’s squirming. “Richard…”

“Yes, love?”

“I want it… harder. I can take it. Will you just fuck my face? I want to give that to you. Please, Richard.”

The thought is so immediately overwhelming that Richard has to squeeze his cock hard at the base to stop himself from coming on the spot. His entire body is just one yearning line of _want._ He nods, taps Taron on the cheek and wraps a large hand around the back of Taron’s neck. He feeds Taron the whole length of him, fucks deep into the lad, water streaming over them both. Hips pumping, his cock hitting the back of Taron’s throat every time, slipping into that snug grasp and then he’s got one hand against the wall of the shower and he’s stuttering jerkily into Taron’s tight gullet, all the way down and the _power_ is as _intoxicating_ as the responsibility is _immense_ , and then he’s coming hard, straight down Taron’s throat, pulse after pulse.

For a moment, his senses shut down completely. When he opens his eyes, Taron is still on his knees, looking dreamy and smug. Richard pulls him up and kisses him deeply. “You’re amazing. You’re amazing. Are you okay?”

Taron nods, and Richard strokes up his throat in wonder. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?” says Richard.

“I’m fine,” says Taron. “I don’t need to come.”

“That’s not what I meant, sweetheart,” says Richard, kissing Taron’s forehead. One hand on Taron at all times, he turns off the jets, reaches for one of the huge white fluffy towels, and dries off his incredible boy.

***

Back in the main room of the suite, Richard leads Taron by the hand toward the gilded full-length mirror, removes his fluffy robe and tucks himself against Taron’s smooth, warm back, stroking down his sides, and looking into the mirror over his shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful, Taron. Look at yourself.” Richard brushes loving fingertips across Taron’s chest, down one arm. Taron looks, doesn’t say anything. “You’re so talented. You’re magnificent.” He strokes back up the arm, up his neck, into his hair, presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Taron shudders. Richard can see he’s getting hard again.

“You’re gentle and you’re kind.” He runs his fingers down Taron’s back, strokes the broad flat of both his palms down Taron’s hips, the outside of his thighs, back up his flanks, onto his belly until Richard is holding Taron from behind, hugging him close. “You’re so brave. And so honest. The way you just told the world how you feel about me yesterday.” Taron meets his eyes in the mirror, and Richard tells himself he can be that brave too. He takes a breath. “I adore you.”

Taron is blushing, tries to hide a little from Richard’s open gaze. He moans quietly, squirms a little in Richard’s arms, his cock jutting out proudly from his body.

“Ach, that’s what I mean, so gorgeous. The idea that you’re so turned on by me talking to ye… it’s _intoxicating_ , Taron.” Richard runs his palms down Taron’s sides again. “Have ye changed your mind about coming, then?” he says.

Taron blushes harder, shakes his head, looks away.

“I’m missing something here, aren’t I, lad?” asks Richard — and Taron meets his gaze again, wordless, restless.

“Is it that ye _don’t_ want to come?” Taron nods, almost imperceptible. “We can stop. I can get our clothes…” The vehemence with which Taron shakes his head catches Richard by surprise. He gentles Taron again, palms over hips, up, down. “You don’t want to come _yet_?” Taron nods. “You don’t want to come until I say you can?” Taron blushes to the roots of his hair and Richard feels a jolt of sheer desire lace through him. “What if I say you can’t come until after the London premiere?” And when Taron ’s breath catches and he shifts in Richard’s hold, pushing back, Richard can barely think. “Oh, _Taron.”_ he breathes.

“That, then. That. Oh, god. You can’t come until I say so, after the London premiere. But you need to start stroking that hard fucking stunning prick of yours right now for me, T. Show me how you like to be touched.” And juddering with it, Taron takes his stiff cock in a loose fist, pumps himself smoothly, lips parted, eyes locked on Richard’s the whole time. “You are so fucking good for me, T. What a fucking marvel you are.”

Taron’s breath is hitching now, interspersed with moans. His hand speeds up on his cock, little twists at the end.

“Stop when you get close, T. Oh my god.” _What did he do to deserve this man?_ Even in his wildest fantasies about Taron, Richard hadn’t let himself dream this was possible. He’s too old to be getting hard again this soon after coming, but his body’s giving it a solid crack.

Taron’s breathing quickens with his hand and his head lolls back onto Richard’s shoulder, then all of a sudden he’s squeezing both hands on his thighs, tight and panting, his hips thrusting into air. His eyes are frantic, begging Richard, and Richard smooths down his flanks again. “Good boy,” he says, and Taron groans out loud.

When he’s calmed down a touch, Richard kisses his temple. “Keep going, lover…” and Taron looks at him, a little wild. “You heard me…” and shaking, Taron moves his hand back to his rigid, glistening cock, whimpers with each stroke. After a minute or so, he whispers, barely audible, “Please can I come, Richard?”

“Ah, love. Well, I’m not going to stop you, but you did say you wanted to be good for me… Do you think you can be good for me?”

Taron chokes back a sob and takes his hand off himself, helplessly moving it in space until Richard twines their fingers together, strokes down his back and hip with the other hand, and murmurs praise into his ear as Taron shudders and shudders through wave after wave after wave of tingling sparks.

***

Richard isn’t quite sure how they made it to the lunch at Le Maschou on time. He has vague recollections of cuddles in bed, stroking Taron’s cheek, and telling each other stories of childhood, shared secrets and then somehow the car arrived, and they dressed rapidly and here they are. He feels dazed with sex and the hangover from last night that’s just making an appearance, given that they stopped drinking at 5am, and the revelations of the morning and the knowledge that Taron is probably still on the edge, and he grabs a glass of champagne and downs it a little too quickly for 1pm, but it’s not like he’s alone and they are the men of the hour. He raises his second glass to Taron, who grins and toasts him back. “To Rocketman!”

The food is incredible — platters of wagyu, lamb, chicken, and hunks of warm, crusty bread with gooey cheese and herbs, and then dessert! Chocolate mousse and lemon tart and crême caramel and there’s a tiny voice in his head saying, _ah, yeah, all of them_ and hearing _excellent choice, sir_ when he catches Taron helping himself to thirds.

By 2.30, they’re drunk again, and everyone has pushed back their chairs to dance to the disco music. Someone puts on Diana Ross and Jack is shimmying up to Taron, so he [ turns his phone camera around and films himself lipsyncing](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bxmo0Z6lSQb/).

_Instinctively you give to me/The love that I need_

_I cherish the moments with you_

Richard’s sitting off to the side, chatting, but he looks up to watch, laughing at them all, when he hears the lyric.

_I'm aware that you're cheating/But no one makes me feel like you do_

That’s a bit close to home but also not at all accurate so when he works out Taron’s posting the video to insta, he opens his app and likes it.

They’ve got the place to themselves and Emmanuel, the maître d’hôtel, is delightful. He’s getting to know Taron’s friends better, and honestly, the only thing that could make this better would be having B here too.

He excuses himself to go outside for a cigarette and calls Brandon. It’s early in LA but he just needs to hear his voice.

“Hey…” he hears, sleepy.

“Sorry, love. Did I wake you?”

“I was dozing. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, babe. So much,” says Richard.

“Where are you?”

“Fancy restaurant with Taron’s lads. Wishing you were here…” he trails off. “I’m in so deep, darling.”

Brandon chuckles. “Well, we knew that going in, honey.”

“You wait till I tell you about last night…” Richard sighs. “I’m partly calling because T just posted a video of him and a friend dancing to Diana Ross and looked at the wrong way, it could be taken as a veiled dig at me… I didn’t want you to see it and misinterpret.”

“Like… okay…?”

“He’s a bit blootered.”

“That means smashed?”

“Pretty much.”

“Hang on.” There are sounds of fumbling, and then a distant, tinny _upside down, boy you turn me inside out_. Richard waits until Brandon gets to the finger waggling. “I see…”

“He’s just having fun. Kidding around. Promise.”

“I trust you. He’s super cute in this, though. I can totally see why you’re smitten. Have you set up our get together yet?”

“I’ll sort it out this arvo, promise.”

“Just let me know.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Richard hangs up, and heads back inside. There are even more people dancing between the tables now, and he lets himself be reeled in to the crowd.

They’ve got a jet to London in less than three hours and somehow this is starting to feel like the end of something, like this entire Cannes experience was a secret holiday fling and that nothing will ever be the same again. In so many ways, that’s true, of course. Even though they’re heading pretty much straight to another premiere together, London is almost home ground and the private bubble they’ve been in will disappear leaving them raw and exposed. And then they’ll go their separate ways: Richard back to New York and Taron to Seoul and then Sydney.

They barely talk for the rest of the afternoon and then they share a car back to the hotel to pack. Taron’s grinning at him, well pleased with himself, and Richard lets him have his moment.

“So, how’s Brandon?” Taron starts, cheeky as fuck.

“You do know polyamory isn’t cheating, right, T? Do we need to have a talk about this?” Richard says sternly, eyes sparkling.

“Did I get you into trouble?” says Taron, not sorry in the slightest.

“Watch yourself, T or maybe I’ll change my mind about London. Maybe you’ll have to wait until New York…”

Taron’s eyes widen and he coughs. “Ah, no, I’ll behave…” he says, and sits up straighter. Richard can’t help himself and bursts out laughing.

“Talking about New York,” begins Richard, “Brandon asked me again about meeting you. When do you land for the US premiere? Do you know yet? I’ve got one of the Jimmys beforehand and Brandon’s going to meet me there...”

“Pretty sure it’s the Wednesday before? I’ll land in LA, if that’s more convenient — I’ve got the other Jimmy. But I’ll be wrecked — Sydney’s a 14-hour flight or something mad.”

“We need to share diaries I think. Haven’t decided if we’re going home and coming back, but it sounds like either the Thursday in LA or June 1 in New York?”

“Send me something and I’ll confirm but let’s say yes for now.” He pauses, swallows. “It’s always going to be this complicated, innit?”

Richard reaches over to him, squeezes his hand. “We’ll make it work,” he says and almost believes it.

In his room, he stacks the three identical silver cases filled with all the formal wear and paraphernalia next to each other, slings his black leather hold-all on top and sinks down against the wall. Gavin takes one last photo of him and captures the enormity of it all in black and white. He [ posts it to Instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BxnAmdjHkoR/) with a simple, “Till next time, Cannes… 🚀” and of course, Brandon likes it within a few minutes, which makes him smile and text B a string of heart emojis. B texts back, “Hang in there, honey. I love you.” and then Jack comments on the Insta post, “Good to see you again, brother” so he guesses he passed muster.

On their way to the airport, [ Taron posts one of Gavin’s shots ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BxnFDa0la1u/) from the day of the premiere, the velvet jacket absent, but still stunning in his shirtsleeves, cummerbund and bowtie, thank you very much, and Richard likes it, even though he’s sitting right next to him, and laughs when Brandon likes it a second later.

“Your boyfriend thinks I’m hot, Richard,” teases Taron, and he’s not wrong. Then Tan France of all people comments “LOOK AT THAT SWAG” on it in all caps and with prayer hands, and Richard laughs. “Look, when queer royalty thinks you’ve got it going on, the rest of us mere mortals canna be expected to resist swooning!” Taron pushes at his shoulder and wraps an arm around him, gazes at him, open, guileless.

There really is no better version of the past three days.

***

They’ve got a day to kill in London and so Bryce is hanging out with Seth and their kids, sight-seeing, and Richard and Taron can catch up with whoever they want but it’s hard to let go of each other. Richard wishes Jamie was with them to share their successes but transatlantic jetsetting is a bit harder with a five-year-old and a pregnant partner. Besides, he’ll be at the New York premiere.

6.42am

_Feeling like I’ve neglected the gym. Care for a workout buddy? It’s that or cry in the shower._

6.43am

**Can’t have you crying in the shower, mate. See you in 15.**

Richard grins, and watches the little dots rise and fall. Taron is still typing. The message doesn’t take long to come through.

6.43am

**Can think of much better things to do in shower**

They work out together and it’s a lot — stripped down a bit, the ripples of their bodies and the sheen of sweat combined with memories of touch and the fact that here in the semi-public of the hotel gym, they can’t in fact acknowledge anything. The brushes of each other’s skin as they spot for each other and the flashes of heat in their eyes once in a while, quickly hidden.

Richard is particularly enjoying the knowledge that even if Taron goes back to his room hard and wanting, there’s not a lot he can do about it, not until tomorrow night.

There’s media during the day of course, and Taron’s got some meetings, plus an interview with Elton and Giles and Zane Lowe that’ll go live tomorrow? The next day? They’re losing track. Richard has a catch-up with the Bodyguard producers.

They’ve both got dinner arrangements — separately — that were organised before any of this happened and in the end they reluctantly agree to sleep in their own places, even though Taron’s apartment is right here. It’s odd for Richard — it’s only two months since he moved to LA, but he’s already rented his house out, so he’s arranged to stay with a buddy and it would look weird to change that last minute.

The next day is more media, plus Taron’s meeting with Emily for lunch before the premiere and planning to tell her about Richard — which Richard’s deeply unsure about but they were together for two years and if T feels he owes her closure, who is he to judge? His own history here isn’t exactly pristine — he never really told Ellie what was going on with Brandon, just let the relationship peter out.

For some unknown reason, Vogue wants to do a photo shoot of Taron getting ready for the red carpet so they won’t even have time together before that. What’s that daft joke though? “Absence makes the knob throb harder?” If the anticipation is smashing Richard, it must be doing a right number on T.

He puts on his black velvet jacket and it’s funny after so many days at Cannes to put on a regular tie instead of a bow tie. Then it’s time, and the car arrives to take him to Leicester Square.

When he finally does see T on that outrageously blue “carpet” — good grief, he needs sunglasses for it and with the glittery video wall behind them and the aqua spotlights around the Odeon — he can’t help grinning like a fool. And of course, [Taron comes right over, grabs him by both arms and pulls him in for a hug](https://www.instagram.com/p/B0AVJTqFxpo/?igshid=uglmr6c0mls5), whispers in his ear, as he’s running hands down Richard’s sides. “I cannot wait. You look good enough to _eat_ , Dickie.”

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” Richard retorts, and then they turn and walk together a way, arms around each other and Taron kisses him on the temple, brazen as ever.

Emily is right behind Taron, and when Taron stops to speak with someone, she gives Richard a hug too, comes in close and says darkly, _sotto voce_ , “well, if it isn’t the sneaky little thief…” before she pulls back and smiles for the cameras. Someone calls for Taron to join them, and he kisses her on the cheek for their benefit and Richard hopes, uncharitably, that the snapper catches how uncomfortable she looks in that moment.

When they’ve moved on to other prey, and Taron’s being interviewed solo by some network, Richard stands next to her, smiling and channeling David Budd as he scans the crowd for the wrong kind of attention. Without looking at Emily at all, he says, “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, m’dear.”

“Do I?” she says back. “Taron’s little video was very instructive...”

“You do. Everyone on my side of this has known everything from the start and we’re all magic with it. If you and T want to shag, we’re all magic with that too. But that’s up to him, innit?”

And he goes to take T’s place with the interviewer, talks about Elton dedicating “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down” to him, and meeting Taron for the first time and watching the pair of them performing on the beach, and tries not to think about the conversation he has to have with Taron at some point about his gorgeous, trusting heart.

Then there’s Elton and he and Taron give an interview together, and Elton gushes again about Taron’s talent, and Richard can see Taron’s heart just expand as he puts one hand to his chest and the other around Elton and he’s so, so fond.

He walks up to Taron again when he’s done with that, checks in with him, adjusts the man’s tie — honestly, he really does need someone taking care of him and Richard’s very happy to volunteer — and it’s comforting when Taron reassures him he’s doing okay, claps him on the shoulder a few times, all business, and then it’s Richard’s turn with _that_ interviewer and he finds himself smiling and saying, “very luckily, we got on very well, so that helped,” and he wants to laugh, because it’s the _understatement of the year_. Eventually, they go and watch themselves, surreal, on the big screen again.

***

They head out to dinner at Quaglino’s — trying to keep it intimate is a ridiculous exercise with the bloody London papers. Honestly, they’re the worst in the damn world, and the Leveson Inquiry seems to have done bugger all to curb their intrusiveness. As they’re leaving, there are paps everywhere, so Richard hunkers down next to his actual bodyguard and covers his face with his hand in the taxi on the way to the after-party, which is held at a swanky members’ club in Mayfair, _dahhling_ , and genuinely looks like something out of Kingsman, all posh over-stuffed velvet banquettes and wood panelling.

Taron drank a bit too much at Quaglino’s and Richard couldn’t help but notice some urgent conversations between him and Emily at the other end of the table. He’s not entirely surprised that Emily hasn’t joined them at Little House but he’s a tad worried about Taron, who looks subdued and exhausted, if he’s honest. At some point, he’s lost his tie.

When Dex gets up from where they’re sitting, leaving Taron by himself for a moment, Richard goes to the bar and gets two glasses of water, takes them over to Taron, and puts one pointedly in front of him. Taron looks up, nods and drains half of it in one go.

“You always know what I need, don’t you?” says Taron.

“I like looking after you, T, you know that.” Richard slides onto the banquette next to him. “How’re ye holding up?”

“Been better, I guess.”

“Conversation with Emily didn’t go quite how you hoped, I gather.”

“I thought it went okay at lunch? But just now… It was uncomfortable.”

“Hmm,” says Richard, trying for non-committal and hitting judgemental and defensive on the way there.

Taron looks at him, oddly. “What?”

“She said something to me, before the screening. Unkind. _Putting it mildly_.”

“Oh, Richard. I’m sorry, you…”

“Hey, it’s not on you, all right? Anyhow, I told her I had no problem if you two wanted to shag, but it wasn’t my decision, so uh… I wasn’t exactly kind back.”

“Ah…”

“I think you need to work out what you want from her… If you want to be with her, I’m not kidding that I’m fine with that. But if you don’t… showing up with her to red carpets is misleading and unfair to both of you.”

Taron has the decency to look chagrined. “I’m rubbish at this, aren’t I?” He downs the rest of his water, and looks at Richard. “I just want to be friends with her, but I’m not sure that’s an option any more either. And god help me, Richard, but right now, in terms of anything more than friendship, all I want is you. I’m yours. Only yours, right now.”

“Jesus fuck, T, the things you do to me.” Richard leans closer and lowers his voice. “Did you still want to come tonight, love? Or are ye too tired? We’ve got time…”

“Think I’m too drunk and melancholy. But let’s get out of here, yeah?” He pushes himself up to stand, bleary, and stumbles a little. “Definitely a bit munted,” he laughs.

“I’ll follow a little behind you, love. There’s paps out there. Which hotel?” and he nods when Taron tells him and watches him weave his way to the exit.

***

Taron opens the door of the suite three seconds after Richard sends the text saying he’s there. He reaches out a hand to Richard, pulls him into a hug and just clings to him.

There’s a vague fug of weed and that clinches the plan for the night.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he tells Taron. Taron just nods. Richard walks him to the bedroom, and gently undresses him but leaves his briefs on, tucks him in. Taron watches Richard as he folds his clothes away, then undresses himself and climbs into the other side of the bed. Richard strokes his hand down Taron’s cheek, neck, arm.

“Hey,” he says. “C’mere.” And Taron shifts over, snuggles in, Richard’s arms strong around him, one hand wrapped behind his neck, stroking his hair. He’s going to take such good care of him.

They wake up with afternoon light streaming through the windows, limbs intertwined, warm, and both hard. Taron whines as he ruts against Richard, squirming with his need.

“Feeling better, love?”

Taron just moans into Richard’s chest and bites down on his pec. “I see, so that’s how it is, is it?” asks Richard with a smile. Richard stretches, arches his back and savours the pressure of his prick against Taron’s thick thigh. “What do you want, Taron?”

“Can’t wait to get my mouth back on you,” says Taron, sucking over the bite mark. “Want to be so good for you.” Richard didn’t think he could get harder, but it turns out he was wrong. He rolls his hips, exhales with a low growl.

“You’re already so good for me, T. Want that too. Want to see you, T… take those pants off.”

Taron scurries to comply, lifts his hips as he shimmies out of the navy blue cotton. He lies back, broad chest heaving slightly, soft belly, perfect cock rising out of dark red curls, and Richard can’t get enough of him.

“You’re so fucking _gorgeous_ , Taron. I know I say it all the time, but you really are a picture, spread out for me like this.” Taron’s hard-on twitches at the praise, and he spreads his legs slightly wider, shameless. Richard is so _hot_ for that, trails his fingers up the insides of both Taron’s thighs and watches beneath hooded eyes as his muscles tremble in response.

“Were you serious, last night, T, when you said you’re mine?”

“Yes,” breathes Taron. “Yours…” and he gasps and arches, pre-cum dripping from him. “Richard…”

“So _beautiful._ ” The sight just goes straight to his balls, and Richard has to adjust his cock. “I want you to make love to me, Taron. Want you to show me how you feel about me. And then you’re going to ask me very sweetly for permission to come. How does that sound to you?”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” babbles Taron, “Genius. _That._ ”

“Give me two seconds, sweetheart. Don’t move…” Richard climbs off the bed, and leaves the room. He comes back with water for both of them, and a few supplies that he puts on the bedside table. “Sit up and drink this — you’ve got to be parched.” Taron sits up, takes the proffered glass and drinks. He picks up one of the bottles on the table.

“Massage oil?”

“Uh huh…”

“Get over here, then…” and Taron pulls Richard back onto the bed and arranges him on his belly. Taron straddles the top of Richard’s thighs and Richard hears the lid of the oil open and the slight gurgle as its poured into Taron’s hands. Then rubbing as Taron warms the oil up, and then both his warm palms are sliding over the swell of Richard’s buttocks and up his lower back, and Richard moans and sinks into the deep feeling of being cared for. He loses track of time as Taron massages his shoulders, his back, his arms, his legs, his feet. Taron turns him over and the look on his face is one of reverence, of worship, lost in it. Richard reaches out a hand to touch Taron’s face in wonder, and Taron turns his head into it, presses a kiss to Richard’s palm.

Taron pours out more oil, massages Richard’s chest, caressing his nipples and bringing them to hard peaks, down his taut belly, to his thighs, his calves, and works his way back up. All of Richard has turned to molten gold. Richard lets his legs fall open and Taron pours more oil onto his fingers.

“Tell me if I’m getting this right?” Taron murmurs, as he teases a fingertip around Richard’s furled entrance.

“Oh, don’t worry, baby, I will… Mmmm… yeah…” he moans, as Taron slides one oiled finger in gently.

“Ohhhh, it feels silky… and so tight. Oh my god, Richard.” Taron slides the finger out, then in again, and Richard is gossamer thin, vibrating with sensation. He feels himself open to Taron, soft skin enveloping him and Taron pants, “Two? Can I?” and Richard responds, “ _Yes_.” and then he’s spread that little bit wider, and Taron’s fingers sink into him and then wet heat surrounds his cock and Taron’s hand is on his hip to hold him steady, and Taron slides his wicked mouth down, down, down to the root of him, and then he’s caught between the push and pull of fingers and mouth and then Richard says, “More oil…” and then there’s heavenly slippery fullness and he tries to speak again and Taron says “Tell me…” and Richard says, “Crook them… just… ahhhhhhh…” as Taron finds his most sensitive spot, and he gasps out, “a little, just brush… oh my _god…_ ” and Taron hums around his cock, surprised and pleased at the spurt of pre-cum, content and dreamy.

Eventually, Taron pulls off him, and pulls his fingers out, ever so slowly, crawls up Richard’s body to kiss him deeply, and Richard can feel all of his emotions in the kiss, all his want, and his need for Richard, all his loneliness and his fear, all his love. He kisses him back, fervently, feverish.

“I want…” Taron begins, “I want…”

“Yes, do it,” says Richard and he helps position Taron, and Taron enters him, slow, tentative and it’s everything.

“So tight, so hot, oh my god, I’m not going to last,” says Taron, breathless.

“Not yet, darling. Hold on.” Taron slides back out, excruciatingly slow, and back in, and he’s whimpering almost constantly now, so hard. He hasn’t come for _days_. Richard’s overcome with the look of sweet agony on Taron’s face, the tension along his entire body.

Taron is shaking from the intensity.

“You make me feel so powerful, T,” says Richard. “So deeply loved. You’re so good for me. Such a good boy.”

Taron groans again. “Please, please, please,” he chants. He’s still rocking into Richard, so deep, each stroke dragging against Richard in the most exquisite of ways.

“Not just yet, gorgeous,” says Richard, gently stroking up Taron’s spine. “You can be good for me for just a little longer, can’t you?” and Taron’s right on the edge, tears forming in his eyes.

“Please,” he begs. “Please, can I? I can’t… I can’t…” but his hips keep moving, stuttering forward and back.

“You’re going to need to be more clear, beautiful. Uhhhh, yes, right there… Please can you what?”

And Taron whines, “Please may I come, please, please, I want to come inside you…”

“ _So beautiful_. Yes, darling, come now, come for me.”

And Taron does, his entire body one paroxysm of ecstasy, “I love you, I love you, I love you…” wrung from him, followed by spasm after spasm that goes on forever, and Richard gentles him, soothing hands down his flanks, as Taron blinks away the tears. And Richard kisses Taron softly, reassures him, “I love you too”.

When it’s over, Taron curls up onto Richard’s chest, slides out of him, intense drag that makes them both shudder. “Kneel for me, darling?” and Taron, dazed, pulls himself up. “I want to come on you. Mark you. Mine. Is that okay?” Taron nods, hot with it. Richard jerks himself, once, twice, he’s so close, and stripes of cum land across Taron’s chest, and they’re both shuddering with aftershocks as they collapse back onto the bed, in each others arms, kissing and kissing and kissing.

***

It’s May 21. It’s been four days, effectively, since they made love for the first time, in the early hours of the morning, in the afterglow of that ovation at Cannes. It feels like it was a lifetime ago, like they’ve known each other forever.

Richard has an eight-hour flight to New York with British Air leaving at 7.50pm. With the time difference, he’ll arrive at 10.30pm local time. At least Brandon will be there when he lands. Taron’s got an 11 hour flight to Seoul with Dex, leaving in the evening and arriving in the afternoon, local time, a bunch of media, followed by another 10 hours in an aeroplane to Sydney.

They’ve showered, they’ve eaten a late room-service lunch, and now there’s only an hour or so until the car will come for Richard. It’s surreal.

Taron’s lying on his back, head in Richard’s lap. He’s wearing one of Richard’s T-shirts, of course, because he can’t exactly go back out there in yesterday’s suit, now, can he? Richard is trying to imprint this entire scene on his retina; he never wants to forget how happy he is in this moment, with this man.

“I like you in my clothes, T,” he confesses, shyly.

“I’m keeping it. You can’t stop me,” warns Taron.

“Wouldn’t dare, love.”

“You’ll call me when you land?”

“Course.”

“And we’ll see each other in LA in a week.”

Richard strokes Taron’s cheek, takes his other hand and kisses it. “We will.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.”

“I’m so glad it was you, Richard.”

“You’re extraordinary, T.” And then, because they’re running out of time, he says, before he loses his nerve, “I got you something.”

Taron raises his head. “You what?”

“It’s just small.” He reaches behind him to retrieve a small box from the table and hands it to Taron. Taron looks at him suspiciously and opens it. It’s a simple silver bracelet, solid and masculine yet fine enough not to be ostentatious. “To remind you that you’re mine,” says Richard. “You don’t have to wear it all the time or anything… just… if you need to.”

Taron slips it on and fastens it, takes a deep breath, and says, “You always know exactly what I need, Richard.”

And Richard breathes out, relieved, and says, “Well, I like taking care of you…”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I need to apologise for my characterisation of Emily Thomas here. I have no idea what she’s like in real life and no reason at all to suspect she’s this awful, but she always looks a bit sour and uncomfortable in photos and when she left the London premiere after-party without Taron, the fic kind of wrote itself.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has supported my journey into becoming madderton trash, and for all the comments and kudos. It’s just delightful. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as mordwen, where I’ve been posting receipts for a lot of the detail in my fic.


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